Tenpenny
by ProphIt
Summary: Frank Tenpenny is a very troublesome youth. Infact, so troublesome, that he's going to wind up dead if he doesn't stop playing people like cheap games.
1. Bad Deal

Frank stood on the sidewalk, leaning against a red brick building. He had cornrows running down his head, and a pair of black sunglasses over his eyes. Why he had them on was a mystery, as it was mid-December, and snow was pouring down over Los Santos in blankets of pure white beauty. He was wearing a black hoodie, with a white tank-top underneath, and tight blue-jeans covering his legs. A cigarette was in his mouth, dangling downward with his hands in his pockets. Soon, he brought one of his hands up to take it out, crush it against the side of the wall, and then flick it into the street.

A red low-rider, with a top up, drove slowly down the street. So slowly infact, that the snow around the edges of the windows and the ridges in the car stayed in place neatly, and only what had clearly been scraped off before the driver got in was not there. After a few moments, it ground to a halt right infront of the man wearing a black hoodie. The window rolled down, and loud music bellowed out. Some kind of cross beetween rap and disco, since one was in it's prime and the other was just beginning. A young man, wearing no shirt, and faded blue-jeans stuck his head out the window, and Frank leaned off the wall, walking over to the man and bending down slightly to look him in the face.

"Tenpenny," said the man,"you got the shit?" Frank nodded. "Yeah, I do. And you got my shit?" The man nodded, knocking his afro against the the top of the window. He turned back into the car, and the driver gave him a gym-bag, clearly filled with money, due to a few dollar bills peeking out of the uncarefully zipped bag. "Show me the shit, first." Tenpenny nodded, and walked back to the wall. He kicked some seemingly-gathering snow around to reveal a cheap wooden suitcase, the contents of which could easily be guessed as some form of narcotics. "Open it up." Tenpenny sighed. "Don't you trust me, man?"

The man with the afro shook his head. "Hell no." Frank chuckled. "Smart man, smart man .. " But, he opened the suitcase, to reveal packet, upon packet, upon packet of a white powdery substance. He soon closed it, and the man nodded at it. He opened the door, looked around slightly, and layed the gym bag on the ground. Tenpenny handed him the case through the window, and he closed the door. Frank bent down and picked up the bag. "Nice doing business with you, gentlemen." He turned to go, took a few steps, and turned back around to the car. "One more thing.." He said.

The man stuck his head out the window again. "What?" Tenpenny reached over, and pulled the afro-pick out of his hair, and tossed it down the street. He backed up and laughed, the car driving off. The man swore a few times at Tenpenny, but the window rolled up and quickly fogged over, and the car turned and sped off. Frank watched it until it was out of site, and then began to move on. He walked a few blocks, and stopped at the entrance to an alleyway.

In the alleyway was a parked four-door, red, though the paint chipping off slowly with several rust spots here and there. Frank walked over to it, and pulled out a key-chain with two keys on it; one for his home, and one to get into, and to start his car. He pushed the key into the back-door's lock, turned it, and heard a faint click sound. He pulled it out, reached for the handle of the door, and pulled it open. Then he tossed the bag in his right hand into the back, and slammed the door shut. Chuckling, he slid into the back seat and closed the door.

"That the money?" A deep voice from the front seat asked. Frank nodded. Two men, wearing black shirts and blue jeans, were sitting there. They were drug dealers, of course, and Frank had acquired drugs through them on the pretense that they would get a cut of the money. False pretense, actually. "Thank you for the help, gentlemen." The one in the passenger seat spoke,"Whatever, where's our cut?" Frank laughed.

"Oh, you won't be getting any cut."

"Wha --" The man tried to say, but a bullet to the forehead cut him off. Frank had, in less than an instance, pulled out a nine millimeter, and shot the man in the head. Then he pressed the gun to the back of the driver's seat, and fired twice. The driver slumped over onto the steering wheel, his head barely missing the horn. Good luck for Tenpenny. Frank shook his head. "Never should trust your fellow man, boys." He reached into the floorboard of the passenger-side rear seat, and retrieved two suitcases, that were supposed to be for the shares. One man would keep the original case the money came in with his share, and the other shares would be divided among the other two.

But instead, Frank decided to keep the money for himself. After all, he'd made the drug run. Why did they deserve a cut? He unzipped the duffle bag, and began to take money into wads of different amounts. After about an hour, he'd taken all the money, and spread it rather evenly among the two suitcases, with only pocket-change left in the duffle bag. That he pocketed.

The deed done, Frank pulled on the metal handle of the door and kicked it open, standing out into the freezing Winter air. He closed the door, and walked across the street with two suitcases in hand, to _his_ getaway car: a blue and white Greenwood, that looked much nicer than the other one he'd just been in. He, like last time, hurled the money into the back seat, and got into the driver's seat, then sped off.

"That's thirty-thousand for me." Frank said, laughing to himself in the car.


	2. On the Run

Frank twisted the rusted silver keys in the lock of his second-floor room in the hotel, in East Los Santos. The door whined in protest as he pushed it open, making it obvious that the hotel was in bad need of a repair-job done to it. But Frank probably wouldn't be in the hotel long -- or even in Los Santos, for that matter. For about two years now, Frank Tenpenny had been traveling to Carcer City, Liberty City, and those sort of places, earning as much money as he thought he could out of the town, and moving on. Surprisingly, he didn't have a very large criminal record. Mostly on account of his natural talent at being deceitful, making the right contacts, and playing it smooth.

He, like all good criminals, _was_ arrested from time to time. Who didn't caught? No one was perfect. Unless you bought into that whole "Christianity" theory. Frank wasn't a Christian -- infact, he mostly opposed them. Honestly, if there was a god out there, Frank wouldn't be so rich and good looking. He'd be poor and miserable, unless this Guy was just not paying attention to Los Santos -- in which case he wasn't all that great of a Guy, was he? But Tenpenny didn't like to get into religion. He didn't buy into any of it. Most of those religions entailed being nice, and good, to begin with. And Frank was anything but that.

Frank walked forward, and turned, slamming the door shut. From the sound of a light clanking outside, one or more of the numbers on the front of his door had just fallen off. Oh well, he thought. What did it matter? If he even came back after tommorow, he would just look for the room missing a number. He didn't feel like complaining at the front desk -- if it could even be called that. More accurately, the 'front desk' was a small room. With a ceiling fan. And a chair. And a desk. No more, no less. If there could even be less than that for it to qualify as an office .. Maybe one less chair.

Tenpenny proceeded to the small bedroom, where he sat down on the edge of the bed, and dropped the gym-bag filled with money onto the ground. He opened it up -- and swore loudly. Empty. A few dollars poked out of it merely for the illusion, and now Frank was mad. Very mad. He stood, and kicked it across the room. He'd just killed two men, and trafficked several pounds of illegal drugs, for _nothing._ He began shouting random cursings, his rage not something to be laughed at. "You think you can fuck with Frank fucking Tenpenny?" He shouted as loud as he could.

What he heard set him off. From the wall of his bedroom, he heard _"Shut the hell up!"_. Clearly, someone through the thin walls didn't like his attitude. With that, he screamed in fury, and ran to the wall, shoving his foot through it. It broke straight through his wall, and he felt it hit the other one of his friendly neighbor. The man shouted out in fear. But Frank wasn't done. He pulled his foot out, and backed up a few paces. He reached to his lower back, and retrieved a nine millimeter -- the same one he used to kill the two narcotics dealers -- and aimed it at the wall. It was silent. So deadly silent, that he could hear his loud breathing.

He almost decided against it. But he wouldn't take shit from anyone. He fired atleast ten shots, all along the wall, and heard the man on the other side cry out as one of Tenpenny's bullets found it's target. He defenetly wouldn't be coming back now. He shoved the pistol back into the back of his pants. He had to hurry. He took the money that had been sticking out of the bag -- $100, at the most. Pocket change to Frank Tenpenny. Soon, he gathered all his clothes and belongings from the hotel room, and had put them in the bag. So, he exited the room by kicking the door open.

When he was outside, he looked around to see if any police had shown up yet. None. But the Hotel manager was standing to the right, on the balcony that was the upper floor of the hotel. He had a .22 -- a stapler, for all it mattered -- aimed at Frank. Frank just stared at the man, holding his bag. "Y'all should really think about some thicker walls." With that, he walked past the man, who dropped his gun in fear when Frank bumped him with his shoulder.

Tenpenny opened the door to his car, snow falling off of it gently. He threw the bag into the floorboard of the passenger's seat, and slid into the seat, shutting the door loudly. He twisted his car-keys in the ignition, and soon had it working. He turned on the Radio, and started listening to some Rap, Disco blend, since both seemed to be popular at the time. He switched it into Reverse, and backed out of the parking lot, into the street, and then went to drive and set off to a sort of boarding house he knew of on Seville Boulevard. He only needed somewhere to put his things before he started to search for the bastards who pulled a fast one on him -- and no one pulled a fast one on Frank Tenpenny, and lived to tell the tail.


	3. Blinding Bullets

Tenpenny dropped his duffle-bag filled with clothes on the hard-wood floor, and walked across the room to sit on the bed, which was entirely bare, except for the common blue sheets, and a mattress. He was in a big building, filled with rooms all connected to eachother by a hallway, with two floors, and two hallways. Around twenty rooms, overall. Tenpenny would leave soon, and probably only return one more time, if he could, to get his things.

Frank pulled some clothes to change into out of the bag, and left the room, heading to the one shower for the second floor of the building. Since it was mid-day, there was no one taking a shower but him, and promptly there was no line. So, he simply strolled into the bathroom where the shower was, and closed the door, making sure to lock it behind him. He had his clothes off soon, and started the shower. Five or ten minutes later, he stepped out, and put on the clothes he'd arranged for himself; a white tank-top, black jeans, and black shoes. Over the shirt was a brown, silk-like jacket, which was buttoned to cover the bulletproof vest over Frank's chest.

When he returned to his room, he reached into the bag filled with his things, and pulled out three weapons; two nine millimeters, and a .38 Calibre revolver. He put the Revolver into an ankle-holster, and the two pistols into the back of his pants, for quick use. Soon, he was outside, turning the keys in the ignition, and cruising down the coast-line of Los Santos. Some up-start fresh gang called the 'Vagos' was starting to put in some time into this particular areas. Frank didn't like Mexicans -- stupid greasy bastards, for all he could care.

Tenpenny was heading to a 'friend' of his' house. Man's name was Sean Evans, just a teenager. A lot younger than Tenpenny. But he was really good with explosives, and Frank had met the bitches who ripped him off through Sean's work with them. He figured Sean would know how to get in touch with them. Sean and Frank weren't really friends. Infact, they might even be considered enemies. Sometimes their business stood inbeetween eachothers, and they'd actually originally met around five years ago in Liberty City. Which is another story, for another time. But rest assured, they weren't friends.

The Greenwood ground to a stop on the sidewalk outside Sean Evan's house, out near the Military Base, a distance off from the Los Santos Airport. Frank kicked the door open and stepped out, looking around to see if he'd been tailed by anyone. And he hadn't. With that done, he slammed the door shut, and walked up to the steps leading to Sean's house. Without even looking to see how many civilians were around, Frank pulled out one of the two nine millimeters he had on him, and bashed the door of Sean's house three times.

He got a reply quickly, when Sean opened the door, saying "Damn, man, hold your hor --", but was cut off by the gun aimed at his face. The cliche _click_ of the gun sounded as Tenpenny aimed the gun at Sean's head, and Sean backed into the house with his hands raised, Frank following him and closing the door. "Sean. It's good to see you." Sean looked more than doubtful of that. "Then why the hell you holdin' a gun to my fuckin' head, man?" Frank laughed at this.

"Oh, this? Just some safety. See, I need some info, y'know?" Sean made a _psh_ sound. "Why should I do that, you buster?" Frank, in a blindingly fast motion, fired a bullet at the wall directly behind Sean, the gun pointed back at Sean's head without so much as a smile or a smirk on Tenpenny's face. Infact, he had a mad looking frown, though his emotions weren't betrayed far beyond that. "You can tell me what I want to know .. Or I could pop that little grape you call a brain, Sean."

Sean raised his hands up further, looking mad. "Fine, man, fine! Damn! What the hell you want t'know?" He tried to act unafraid, but failed. His voice cracked now and again, and his legs and hands were visibly shaking. "You know those two dope-head dealer fuckers I met through you?" Sean nodded,"Well, I'd like to know where the hell I can find them." Sean was hesitant, but Frank pushed the gun into his head as a warning.

"They've got a place set up down at the docks -- a factory, with the words ,'Smear Co.' in the side! They're usually there alone around midnight! That's all I know, I swear!" Frank was as surprised as Sean was that he'd just given such information with a simple threat. "You need to get some balls, man." Said Frank as he lowered the gun, and shot Sean in the thigh. He screamed in pain, and fell to the ground, screaming in pain. "I'll see you later, Sean." Said Frank, laughing, as he exited the house. He closed the door. Sean would probably survive, if he screamed loud enough.

_Five Hours Later_

It was about a quarter-till Midnight, and Frank Tenpenny was staring at the blue warehouse at the docks, parked across the street from it. It was the place. Frank didn't feel scared, but he was still waiting for the time to pass to Midnight. But, being ever impatient, he decided to go now. So there were two or three other people? Just more fun, right? Of course. He opened the door to his car, and slammed it shut. He walked, casually, across the street, and up to the factory. The door was unguarded, and all that kept it sealed appeared to be the keypad right next to the metal shutter.

Still not patient, Tenpenny simply picked up a crowbar lying around for work purposes, and drew it back, slamming it prong-first into the keypad. It spit out sparks at Frank, but soon the shutter door opened for him. He turned, and dropped the crowbar. Again casually strolling into the room, he reached into his back and pulled out the two nine millemeters, smirking. There was row after row of shelves and boxes, though the shelves seemed to be arranged to lead a path through the warehouse. So, why not follow it?

Tenpenny did just that, and eventually arrived at an open end of the warehouse. Sitting there was a small desk, with several chairs around it. Maybe ten, or eleven. Each filled with people. And what outlined the walls? Men in black suites, with combat shotguns resting on their shoulders. Lovely. Frank ducked down behind a box, and waited for shots to be fired. But apparently, he hadn't been seen, as the men sitting at the table all continued conversing in Russian. Perfect for a surprise attack.

With the intention of mostly looking completely awesome, Frank walked into the open, and smiled. "Greetings, gentlemen." He said, as he held up his arms and squeezed the trigger of the gun, blowing away two of the guards in the room. Before any of them could react, he turned, and gunned down atleast three other guards. But soon, the men at the table stood, and ran, screaming, up a flight of stairs leading to a back office. "Not so fast!" He shouted, and took a step forward, towards the step. His movement was halted by a hail of shotgun blasts to the area he was just about to be in, which forced him to dive onto the table in the middle of the room.

Tenpenny quickly shot two more of the guards, their bodies slumping over lifelessly, leaving two or three left. Frank threw his legs off the table and tried to jump up, feeling his shirt snag on something. He reached to try and pull it free, but was hurled backwards, off the table, by the impact of atleast three bullets hitting him in the chest.

Luckily, Frank stil had his body armor on. The fall had ripped his jacket at the bottom, and there were three or four bulletholes in the front. "Motherfuckers, this is my good jacket!" He raised the pistols, and shot two more of them. He aimed one of his nine millimeters at the final guard, but heard only a hollow click as he tried to fire. Oh shit.

But somehow, out of pure luck, the shotgun of one of the other guards dropped at just that moment, and bounced soundly on the floor. Both the guard and Tenpenny looked at it, as it discharged a round into the man's legs. His legs flew into the air, and he fell onto his side. Frank simply laughed, and dropped the blank gun. As he made his way to the stairs, he deposited the last bullet in the clip of his other gun in the last guard's head. Now the room seemed to be filled with a red mist of blood, and smears of it all across the floor and walls, with bullet holes littering the ground, chairs, table, and walls.

Frank walked up the steps calmly, and, at the entrance reached down and pulled the revolver from his ankle holster. He held it in both hands at the ready, and entered the room. What he wasn't ready for was another blast from a shotgun. Three shots once more hit him in the chest, sending him flying into the wall right behind him. Two more hit, one at his ankle, and the other at his knee cap. In blind fury, he fired round after round off, hearing the sound of corpses hitting the ground. With the first two shots, he must've finished the guard, or two, that had shot him, since he received no fire back at him.

In a matter of moments, he had used all his bullets. He dropped the revolver, and opened the eyes he hadn't realized he'd shut. What met him was blood-coated walls, and five corpses on the ground, some leaning against the wall, and others just lying there, dead. Only one man remained standing. Tenpenny knew who he was. It was the driver of the car that the men who tricked him had been in. A young black man, who was cowering against the wall. But soon, he realised the fact, that Tenpenny was out of bullets..

Frank stared in awe as a smile graced the man's lips. He walked forward, and bent down, clearly untouched by the flurry of fire Frank had let loose, and pulled up the dead bodyguard's shotgun. He aimed it at Frank, and chuckled. "Thought you could get some revenge, huh? Well now, it's nothin' but a funeral for you, you bitch!"

The gun discharged it's bullets. Frank watched them fly at him, as if in slow motion. The first two hit the wall next to Frank. One entered his stomach, and Frank resisted the urge to vomit and scream out in pain. Another hit him in the foot, causing him even more pain. And the final hit him, he could see, square in the jaw, as he slumped over from the pain, _dead._


	4. Sentencing

It took two months for Frank to be charged for anything. He'd spent two months, sixty days, one thousand four hundred forty hours, in the hellhole that some ignorant people referred to as 'jail'. To understand the pure horror of it, you really did have to be there. And pray you never are. Rather than have edible food, their meals mainly consisted of strange, greenish or brownish substances that Frank really couldn't identify. And when they were given sandwiches, it was as though they'd been made steaks. And thinking about steak made his stomach churn with the horrible hollow feeling that it grew to posess constantly.

Frank could remember seeing all these movies with prisons in them, where the prisoners were always sent out to the yard to excercise, or some other shit like that. What a load. Maybe the penitentary near San Fierro -- a near literal version of Alkatraz for San Andreas -- had a yard for the prisoners, but the Los Santos Police Department sure as hell didn't. What they received was a piece of paper, and the inside of an ink pen to write on it with. Since Frank had no one to write to, he instead requested some tape, and now, each wall of his cell was covered in drawings much like graphittie.

He had gone a good bit of surgery to fix the places where he'd been shot. Apparently, the medical staff of the Hospital he was in was completely amazed that he had taken such minor injuries in comparison to the body count at the docks. The bullet that hit him in his jaw and made him believe he was dead had only shattered it, and it was wired back together, now looking as it had before. The one that hit him in the stomach was easily found and removed, as it had not punctured or gone through any vital organs. Frank disagreed, feeling that it had caused far too much pain not to have killed him. And the last bullet had blown a large hole in his foot, which now caused him to walk with a limp often. Luckily it had been found and removed easier than the one in his stomach had been.

He didn't have a cell-mate, since his cell was at the back of the prison (apparently a tribute to Hannibal Lector) where all the cells were only fit for one person, from back in the early 1900's, when there were 'low' amounts of crime in the city, leading to a near lack of a prison overall. So, here Frank Tenpenny was, sitting on the edge of his bed, in an actually good mood. He was going to be sentenced today. Some people might be anxious, or depressed about it, but to Frank it was as close to freedom as he'd ever get. Mostly because the Court where he was going was halfway across town, so he got to go outside for a while. As he sat there thinking, his cell door slid open, and a uniformed guard called out his ID number.

"Time for your sentencing; come on." The man said, and Frank stood, gleefully. He was going to enjoy being outside, for sure, because for the rest of his life, he'd be in jail. He knew it, and he'd come to terms with that pestering fact. He'd murdered atleast five or six people, so the odds of getting parole were a little below average.

He walked down the sidewalk of the street, until he reached a police cruiser. He was wearing a cliche orange jumpsuit, with an ID number on the back -- much like a serial code -- and the words "Los Santos State Property" on the front. He got in the back of the car, his hands cuffed togethed behind him, and they sped off to the other end of the town. Frank lost himself in thought, enjoying and taking in the air, and the city itself as the sped along, so that he didn't hear what the driver of the car said to him.

"Get out." Said the man. But Frank didn't respond, just staring at him.

"Hey!" he shouted, bringing Frank back to reality. "Get the hell out of the car, or you'll be late for your god damn sentence." Frank didn't respond, but simply scooted over and out of the car, entering the court through the large wooden doors in the front. Due to the lack of a feeling of breeze in his hair, he realised that, over the months, his hair had turned into a thick buzzcut sort of thing. It didn't matter that much to him.

It took nearly two hours for all of the witnesses to speak, and for the data to be analysed, and finally for the Jury to make a decision. Frank didn't hold his breath, didn't act as though he cared. If he was sentenced to life, he wouldn't be mildly surprised. If he was sentenced to death, he wouldn't be remorsefull. If he was given Parole, he would leave, and never be seen in San Andreas again -- of course, that was far too much to hope for.

The hammer banged against the small wooden pedestal upon the Judge's desk, bringing Frank back to conciousness. "Mr. Tenpenny, you have two options." Frank nodded, a slight acknowledgement of his listening. The man spoke in a cliche boring voice that nearly had Frank asleep in his seat.

"You may either serve forty years in prison," he said,"or .. You may join a newly formed Police Unit, C.R.A.S.H., in order to prevent the kind of actions you've taken from being taken by _other_ narrow-minded teenagers." Frank was stunned.

Why was he given such a simple choice as joining a law enforcement unit? Shouldn't he be thrown in jail for the rest of his life or, more likely, given what was so collectively referred to as 'the chair'? Had someone greased the wheels to allow Frank Tenpenny to slide so free? No, of course not. No one would care enough about him to have his sentence let off easy.

"Your choice, Mr. Tenpenny?" Said the judge, interrupting Frank's thoughts.

"I'd like to join C.R.A.S.H., your honor." He said, smiling.

"Case dismissed, sentenced to at-least eight months of service in C.R.A.S.H. unless injured while on-duty. Now let's get the hell out of here, I need breakfast."


End file.
